by Judi Lind
“Thank you, Carl. I was just concerned.”
“Mmm. Well, as I said, everything seems okay. I am a bit concerned that you might have cracked a rib, but we can’t chance an X ray, so we’ll tape you up to keep them immobilized just in case.”
She unconsciously rubbed the sore spot just under her left breast. “Not a bad idea.”
He took the necessary bindings from the drawer and tore open the plastic wrapping. With quick measured motions, he wound the elastic bandage tightly around her upper abdomen, binding her bruised ribs into place. “There,” he said, when he’d fastened the bandage and replaced her hospital gown. “That should hold you. I want you to rest here awhile, make sure you remain stable.”
She breathed slowly and shallowly. “Whew. I had no idea the wrapping would be so tight.”
“Not much point in doing it otherwise, Dr. Murphy,” he uttered in a censorious tone.
“I understand that, Dr. Bender. I was merely commenting on the discomfort—much as a patient might do. You have dealt with patients, haven’t you? You know, those creatures who expect concern, maybe even compassion?”
Bender had the grace to look embarrassed. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. As I said, everything seems to check out okay. You might want to make an appointment with your regular OB as a follow-up.”
“I will.”
“All right, then.” Nodding tersely, he yanked open the curtains and left the treatment room.
About an hour later, Monica Giesen returned. “Sorry to take so long. Message delivered.”
It took Valerie a moment to realize that Monica was referring to having phoned Gil. Despite the tight, almost pinching sensation of the rib binding, Valerie smiled. She felt like a schoolgirl waiting to hear if little Bobby really liked her. “So what did he say?”
“He’s a man of few words, honey. But I got the distinct impression when he hung up the phone before I was finished talking that he was flying out the door even as we spoke.”
These drugs must be really good, Valerie thought as a sense of smug satisfaction flooded her insides.
“So what’s the verdict?” Monica poked Valerie’s arm to gain her attention. “I didn’t notice any glee on Callous Carl’s face, so apparently everything checked out okay.”
Valerie gave her a conspiratorial grin. “Not exactly a warm ‘n’ fuzzy people person, is he?”
“For all the rapport he has with his patients, he should have been a pathologist.”
“Or a urologist.” Valerie laughed. She normally wouldn’t joke at the expense of another staff member, but the misnomered Dr. Bender was so rigid and unbending, and she was so relieved to be alive, that Valerie let her professional standards relax just a fraction.
“Or a proctologist!” Monica hooted in appreciation of her own one-upmanship.
The joke ended abruptly when Valerie glanced up and saw an irate-looking Carl Bender standing behind Monica. Embarrassed at having been caught poking fun at the prudish resident, she gave Monica a sharp glance. “Dr. Bender, I didn’t see you come back in.”
“I think that’s fairly obvious. Sorry to interrupt your little joke with the staff, Doctor, but I thought I would give you the results of the blood work.”
He tossed a computerized printout onto the bed and stalked out of the room without another word. Chastened, Valerie picked up the paper. As she’d hoped, all the chemical components of her blood sample were within the normal limits.
Relief flooded her. Any remaining chagrin about her banter with Monica Geisen faded into oblivion. The austere Dr. Bender was well overdue for a reality check. It was time to celebrate, and there was only one person with whom she wanted to share her good news.
As if on cue, Gil raced into the treatment room. “That cab took forever!”
Dark hair disheveled as if he’d run from her house, he elbowed past Monica and grabbed Valerie’s hand. Despite his agitated state, as evidenced by his pasty color and heavy breathing, his voice was calm and soothing. “Sweetie, are you all right?”
Unaccountably, tears stung her eyelids. “I’m fine,” she managed to say without blubbering.
“Guess you won’t be needing me anymore,” Monica murmured as she made a discreet exit.
“Bye, and thanks,” Valerie called over Gil’s shoulder, never taking her gaze from his concerned face.
Slipping his hands beneath her back, he scooped her into his arms. She snuggled, feeling safe and comforted in his grasp, wanting the moment to last forever. She’d forgotten how desperately she’d once yearned for his touch. His hands on her skin had become as necessary to her as breathing. She sighed, luxuriating in the joy of again finding her breath, her life.
If only for these few moments.
Gil smoothed back a strand of hair from her forehead and pressed his lips there. “I was so worried. What happened?”
“I...I’m not sure. My brakes went out.”
He leaned back, his face contorted with a scowl. “Your brakes? Just went out? Without any warning?”
She shrugged. “They were fine when I drove home yesterday. Boy, am I going to give my mechanic a piece of my mind. I just had a complete checkup last week and he said everything was fine.”
She wouldn’t have believed it possible, but even more color leeched from Gil’s face, with its motley array of cuts and bruises. His voice, though, was tough and unyielding. “And he specifically checked your brakes?”
“Of course. Every ten thousand miles I have a complete tune-up. They check the brakes, hoses—all that stuff. I hate car trouble, so I try to keep my car in perfect working order.”
He nodded slowly. Yes, that fit perfectly with her personality. Thorough, cautious and always meticulous. Except, he thought with a clear flash of remembered pleasure, except in certain unguarded moments when she was unfettered and wild. Rare moments he’d been privileged to enjoy. Hot steamy moments that he suddenly missed as though he’d lost a vital part of himself.
Right now, though, he had to put his own pleasure aside and get her out of this hospital. Get her somewhere safe. Until her car was thoroughly checked over and pronounced clean by the auto-evidence techs, they had to go on the assumption that someone had tampered with her brakes.
He didn’t know why the kidnappers had suddenly targeted Valerie; he only knew he’d dragged her into this mess and it was his responsibility to keep her safe. A job he’d botched so far.
Holding her trembling hand in his, he asked, “You ready to get sprung from this joint, or do you have to hang around for some reason?”
She shook her head. “No, as far as I know I’ve been released.”
He tugged at her hand. “Then let’s go. We’ll take a taxi over to a car-rental company. Uncle Sam will foot the bill.”
“I’m sure my insurance covers rental cars in case of an accident, but—” she pointed down to her ill-fitting hospital gown “—I think a change of clothes might be in order before we go traipsing across town.”
Trailing a long lingering glance down the length of her gown, taking his time as he enjoyed her bare legs, he said, “I don’t know, Doc, that little frock you’re wearing might get us a hell of a discount on the rental car.”
“It can also get me arrested, considering the, er, openair effect in the back.”
He waggled his eyebrows in a mock leer. “I know I’m a strong advocate of your wearing that gown home. In this Phoenix heat you might be glad of the air-conditioning.”
“I’d be glad if you’d get out of here so I can get dressed,” she said severely, although they both knew it was only bluster.
For the first time since his return, Valerie seemed relaxed and free of the terrible antipathy she’d harbored toward him. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, there was still a chance they could recapture whatever they’d had in the past.
Chapter Nine
Getting away from the hospital proved more complicated than Gil had anticipated. The rib bindings made it difficult for Valerie to bend, so he was helpin
g tie her sneakers, when another white-coated physician rushed into the room.
“Valerie! I came as quickly as I could.”
“Oh, Sid, thanks for coming. Carl Bender gave me a pretty thorough examination, but I’ll feel better once you’ve confirmed his diagnosis.”
Glancing pointedly at Gil, Sidney Weingold said, “Mr. Branton, I’d heard you’d come back. Are you involved in all this?”
“All what?” Gil asked as he straightened and glanced at the doctor’s name tag. He wasn’t ready to admit to anyone else the extent of his memory loss. Weingold. Weingold. Why was that name so familiar?
“This used to be an orderly institution. First you show up in the ER, beaten up by a gang of bikers, I understand. Then Dr. Murphy is chased through the hospital by an armed gunman, and this morning her brakes mysteriously fail on the freeway!”
“Wait, Sid.” Valerie held up her hand to stem the flow of rhetoric. “There’s nothing mysterious about my brakes going out. Mechanical devices simply break from time to time. There’s no reason to believe these incidents are connected.”
She turned to Gil, as if waiting for his confirmation.
Unable to grant her even this small consolation, he turned away and studied an evil-looking metal implement soaking in an alcohol solution.
The atmosphere in the small examining room was suddenly tense. There was a long awkward silence.
Finally Sid coughed. “Well, yes, I see. At any rate, Mr. Branton, perhaps you could wait in the reception area while I give Dr. Murphy a brief examination.”
Gil shrugged. He thought she’d already been checked over by at least half a dozen medics, but maybe physicians were like cops in that they rallied around when one of their own was in jeopardy.
“This shouldn’t take long,” Valerie said.
“No problem. I’ll be waiting by the information desk.” He nodded at Weingold and made his way into the crowded ER corridor. It was hard to believe that only yesterday he himself had been wheeled through these congested hallways. The full contingent of personnel trained to handle bodily trauma had been put into force on his behalf. He’d come close, too damned close, to dying.
And for what? The job?
How much longer could he fool himself into believing that everything he’d given up and all the risks he’d taken on meant anything in the overall scheme of life? With or without Special Agent Branton on the job, men would still commit desperate acts, criminals would be apprehended, jails would be overcrowded so that the already short sentences would be cut even more. Those unrehabilitated felons would appear back on the streets and the entire cycle would start again.
Idealistic young men, as Gil had once been, were slowly chewed up by the inept system. All too soon they became bitter cynical men without homes, families or even the vague satisfaction of having accomplished their career goals.
Why did he stay?
He dropped onto a hard sofa, done in kind of a pinky tweed fabric. Throughout the hospital, that same pinky color—Valerie had called it taupe—was interspersed with turquoise and terra-cotta. Very chichi Southwestern. Supposed to be soothing colors for the patients and their visitors. As if any color scheme could override the sense of fear and pain that permeated any hospital.
Grabbing a three-month-old issue of Arizona Highways, Gil scanned the vivid photographs. Some of the spots highlighted were typical of tourist Arizona, tall saguaro cacti, arms outstretched like ghostly sentinels welcoming the weary traveler. Other pages showed an Arizona rarely seen by outsiders—snow-covered mountain peaks, mile after mile of rich forest blanketed with ponderosa pine trees. He flipped back to the photograph of the snow-capped mountains and wondered if he knew how to ski.
Maybe, after all this was over, he and Valerie could head to those mountains this fall and test the bunny slopes.
Then he remembered. By fall, his case would be over and he would be dispatched to some other city, burying himself in some other horrific crime.
He tossed the magazine aside. What was keeping Valerie? And why did Sidney Weingold’s name continue to set off Gil’s silent alarm system?
A shadow falling across the commercial-grade carpeting that absorbed the sound of footsteps caused him to look up. Valerie and Dr. Weingold were approaching. She had her hand wrapped around Weingold’s forearm and was laughing up at him, her ivory face radiant.
Raw jealousy slashed through Gil. Had the good doctor stepped in and offered more than a comforting shoulder when Gil had disappeared?
He bit off the sharp barb that hovered on his lips. Valerie deserved someone solid and dependable like Weingold. How could he resent her finding solace in another man’s arms when he himself had nothing to offer her? No stability, no permanence—hell, he couldn’t even share her memories of their brief past.
Forcing an amiable smile, he rose and stepped forward to meet them. “Ready to go?”
She tossed her braid over her shoulder. “Sid offered us a ride to a car-rental company.”
“We don’t need to bother a busy man like Dr. Weingold,” Gil demurred. “We can just take a taxi.”
“Nonsense.” Weingold cast Valerie an affectionate gaze. “My car’s right outside.”
Unable to think of an excuse that didn’t sound childish and petty—that wasn’t childish and petty—Gil gave in as gracefully as possible and followed them out the wide glass doors to the staff parking lot. As he might have expected, Weingold drove a shiny gold Lexus coupe with a wine-colored leather interior.
Opening the passenger door, the doctor held the seat belt aside and motioned for Gil to climb into the rear. “Sorry, bucket seats,” Weingold said with a trace of triumph.
With a growl of irritation, Gil threaded his way between the nylon strap and the leather seat and squeezed into the tiny space. Because Weingold was so long-legged, he’d set the driver’s seat back as far as it would go, causing Gil to fold up his knees an inch from his chin.
Glaring into the rearview mirror, he caught Weingold’s self-satisfied smirk as he solicitously helped Valerie into the front seat. With a jaunty whistle, he skipped around the front of the car and slipped behind the wheel. Then, reaching under his seat, Weingold retrieved a tweed Irishwool driving cap and slapped it on his head.
The doctor, Gil decided, was a first-class putz.
He was also a skilled driver, weaving his way effortlessly through the heavy rush-hour traffic on Interstate 10.
In the dazzling Phoenix sunshine, it was hard to believe that only hours before, someone had tried to murder Valerie.
Gil stared at the back of Sidney Weingold’s neck. He sure was Johnny-on-the-spot, concerned and helpful. It was more than possible that his jovial assistance had an ulterior motive. By giving Valerie a shoulder to confide on, he could gain her trust and deflect any suspicion.
The suave and oh-so-charming Dr. Weingold would bear close scrutiny, Gil decided. Very close.
Within moments they pulled into one of the rental agencies that ringed the airport. “Now, Valerie,” Weingold said as he hurried around the Lexus to open the passenger door, “this really isn’t necessary. You’re more than welcome to borrow my car. Just pick me up this evening and take me back to my condo—”
“Thanks, Sidney,” Gil cut in as he deftly removed Valerie’s elbow from the physician’s grasp. “But this is much more convenient. For all of us.”
Weingold glanced questioningly at Valerie, who nodded and smiled brightly. “We wouldn’t want to put you out, Sid, but I already have a car reserved.”
“If you’re sure? It’s really no bother.”
Yeah, right. No bother at all for Valerie to drop into his condo late at night. Gil had to hand it to the lanky doctor. Lending his prized Lexus was far more enticing than the promise of seeing his etchings.
Ignoring Gil’s scowl, Valerie took Weingold’s hand. “I truly appreciate everything you’ve done. Thanks again.”
With a tip of his snazzy driving cap, Weingold winked and returned to the dr
iver’s seat. Then he revved his powerful engine and glided back into the traffic.
Gil couldn’t figure out what Val saw in the jerk. The man was truly loathsome. He gave her a curious glance.
Her already pale complexion was the color of sunbleached bone. A raw scrape, painted bright red with antiseptic, marred her perfect cheek. Unlike her normally serene visage, she looked totally spent.
As they walked past the shiny windows, he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflective glass. Purple and yellow bruises, crimson abrasions and a couple of ugly black stitches. The two of them made a lovely couple—like refugees from a boxing ring.
With a firm grasp on her elbow, he hurried her out of the broiling sun into the cool car-rental facility. After taking a look at their banged-up features, the clerk first tried to talk them into a different agency down the street.
When Valerie presented her identification, backed up with several platinum credit cards, he softened.
After much discussion and several phone calls to Valerie’s credit-card company to double-check her limit, they were on their way in a shiny new sports-utility vehicle.
With Valerie navigating, Gil eschewed the heavily traveled freeway system and stuck to the side streets as he drove them back to her house. He didn’t say much during the short drive; it was obvious she hadn’t reached the same conclusion he had regarding her failed brakes.
The primary reason he had lived through so many undercover operations was that he didn’t believe in coincidences. Accepting that her brakes just happened to fail the day after a hired gun tried to kill them both was too great a coincidence to swallow.
“Oh! Take a left at that next corner.” Valerie pointed toward a commercial thoroughfare.
“Why? I thought your place was straight ahead.”
“Food.”
“Ah.” He flicked the turn signal and pulled into the left lane.
Leaning forward, she scanned the multitude of fast-food establishments, rejecting first one, then another. “No, I don’t want a burger.”
“How about the Colonel?”